Gratitude
by Ivory Novelist
Summary: Thanksgiving.


A/N: Yet another random one-shot. No slash intended.

* * *

_Gratitude_

It's around 11 o'clock when the doorbell rings. House actually wonders who the hell it could be for the first time in a while; no one around here would go out on Thanksgiving night.

Except for Wilson, of course.

"I hope you're hungry. I've got dinner."

House blinks at him, as he continues on toward the living room with a wicker picnic basket. House shuts the door and scrunches up his face.

"You got any wine?" Wilson calls.

"Uh – I guess... What are you doing here?"

Wilson looks over his shoulder at his best friend. "I – thought you'd like to have Thanksgiving dinner."

House flips up his wrist and glances at his watch. "Now? Haven't you already eaten?"

"Sort of. I moved my food around while Julie entertained the in-laws."

"Why didn't you just go to bed or something? I'm sure Julie's wondering why the hell you're out on Thanksgiving."

Wilson shrugs. "I sat through dinner. It's over."

"Exactly."

"Not for you."

House rolls his eyes. "I don't do holidays. They make me feel like I'm in a bad TV-movie."

"It's good food," says Wilson, turning his back on House and taking the Tupperware out of his basket. "Turkey, mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, stuffing, cranberry sauce – and two pieces of pie."

"Pumpkin?"

"No, apple. You hate pumpkin."

House gives a melodramatic jerk of surprise. "Julie based her pie on my taste?"

Wilson rolls his eyes. "I stopped by the bakery last night."

"You planned this? Why, Dr. Wilson."

"Shut up and get the wine."

House smirks to himself privately on his way to the kitchen. He picks the good red he hadn't opened in two years and stops short in the dining room doorway; two plates of food are already waiting across from each other, accompanied by folded cloth napkins and a little candle – the round, Italian restaurant kind.

"You outdid yourself, James," he remarks, approaching with the wine bottle and two glasses clutched awkwardly in his free hand. James smiles and sits down, as House frees his hand. He sits without knowing quite how to act; every Thanksgiving previous that Wilson has spent with him had only been their typical Chinese takeout or delivered pizza on the couch, while watching TV and drinking beer until House finished and played their conclusive piano music.

"You didn't have to do this," he reminds Wilson.

"I thought it would be nice," Wilson half-sighs.

"It is."

Wilson picks up his fork with a faint smile, and House follows. They eat in silence for a while, until House compliments the food quietly. He's grateful for the meal, since all he had earlier was leftover tuna casserole. And moreover – he's grateful for Wilson's company, the one thing he has to be thankful for.

And Wilson smiles at him. And he's grateful for that too.

"Thanks," he murmurs, looking back down at the mashed potatoes.

"You're welcome," Wilson replies softly. He waits before saying this is much better than sitting across from Julie at a white-table-cloth dinner in the company of her parents. And House is thankful he can make Wilson happy so easily.

As the night goes on, House realizes that his gratitude is expanding, the list lengthening. The food, Wilson's company, Wilson's happiness, Wilson's smile, his own comfort, his own near brush with feeling right again, happy again. The mere fact he has anything to still be thankful for at all.

And he almost wants to tell Wilson that he if believed in God, he would thank Him for James in a prayer or two.

Instead, he looks from his food to Wilson and back again, only half-hearing their small talk and laughter. He's thinking too much again, and he's not sure if Wilson can tell or not. The oncologist sips on his wine, slips forkfuls of stuffing into his mouth, and smiles gracefully. He's dancing. And all House can think of is how grateful he really is for this – and how he should've felt it long ago.

Once each plate is clear, they sit back in contemplative silence, the candle flame swaying and their outlines glowing and their eyes finally meeting like an inevitable conversation. And they stare for a while – and it's nothing like the house Wilson lives in. There is no bright living room light, no unspoken requirement to sit up straight and keep his shirt buttoned and his sleeves down and his tie on. There aren't any estranged in-laws or awkward silences and no need to try disappearing. There is only House – his one way to feel alive and meaningful. There are only the empty glasses and the dirty plates and that little candle Julie had never bothered to light.

He could say "Happy Thanksgiving." He could say something true. He could speak of love and friendship and gratitude, and he could ask to stay. But he doesn't – because he knows he never has to ask and that they both already know, somehow, about the love and the friendship and the gratitude. So Wilson waits, with his hands folded over his belly, and he finally gives House a real smile – the kind that isn't provoked, its own gentle light and reassurance that life is okay. And House doesn't give him one back.

"Still up for pie?" he murmurs. Wilson concedes. House takes out that last Tupperware container and the two smaller plates Wilson packed. They both get halfway through the pieces before House comments on Wilson bringing the good china. And the microwave reads 12:35, and the TV provides background noise so that they don't have to endure utter silence.

"You want some coffee?" House asks, once they've finished.

"I'm fine," says Wilson. And House nods. They don't move at once, and nothing need be said about Wilson spending the night. The oncologist wanders out eventually and flops onto the couch. House offers a blanket from the cupboard, and neither bothers to turn off the TV. As Wilson closes his eyes, House's fingers begin to make love to the piano, lulling Wilson to sleep.

It's all House can do, when he's breathing the words, _I'm grateful for you._


End file.
